Overtime
by PurpleYin
Summary: He'd been told in the mandatory counselling that teamwork is the ability to work together toward a common vision. He could definitely say it helped his teamwork skills when the shared vision was not dying horribly. Kavanagh based.
1. Chapter 1

Warning for later violence and a little language.

Spoilers: Early S4 somewhere for a brief mention of the potential existence of the setting, but nothing major

Author's Note: This is for lirielviridian, for the kavtolanon Secret Santa, who wanted "college, deadly presents ( weapons! WEAPONS!) and Kav who can hold his drink." Lacking in college elements, sorry, but I think I managed to fulfil the other two requirements well.

Betaread by rodlox and fififolle.

* * *

Will sped down the dimly lit narrow corridor, his breathing ragged and futilely aiming to steer himself more gracefully towards the niche that was just after the sole light – he hit the wall with a small thunk, having overestimated the depth it provided. Trying to think strategically was a challenge, or to correct himself this was the real world and it was the very personal involvement terrified him. He wasn't a guy who'd thought much about what he'd do in a military off-world situation. He was marvellous at picking out negligence in others, including lack of foresight by soldiers accompanying him on missions. Indeed he was fabled for it, in a negative manner naturally, as practically no one could take constructive criticism well on Atlantis. However, as he was finding out, doing it for yourself was different – he needed to detach and think upon his own actions clinically, which wasn't easy in the present circumstances. 

The lights overhead buzzed intermittently, building to an ominous whine that was followed by a loud _plink_ signalling the plunge into total darkness. Two ideas flashed in his mind; either that plink had been a fitting sound masking the real cause of the outage – a small projectile weapon that could just as easily have been badly-timed and aimed at his head – meaning there was one of them on his trail, or, more worryingly, they'd managed to take out the generators for the whole outpost.

He tried to calm down, counting his breaths, forcing them in and out to a slow count. _Be rational, think objectively_. Straining to hear over his still uneven breathing he could make out no sign whatsoever of there being another inhabitant of the corridor, but as he'd learned it was unwise to trust your sense of hope. Besides, as bad a situation as it would seem it was infinitely preferable to have one of them standing less than a few meters away from him.

The alternative was that in a few hours they'd all be frozen solid, the temperature dropping every minute until painfully low. No one else would have a clue they were anything but contently sitting out the storm, drinking merrily around the dining table. Eventually their bodies would give up as the internal environment equalised with the influence of the outside. Maybe they'd consider that a worthy sacrifice, enough to pay for "the mistake." Who knew.

This hadn't been remotely how he'd thought his Christmas would go, only the locality matched what he'd expected a few days previously. Being neither religious nor superstitious he wasn't prone to blaming unspecified entities for his problems but right now it made him feel temporarily better to swear at fate/the universe or whatever it was possible to assign this to. In particular though, he cursed at the fact that the sword was so damned heavy.

* * *

He blinked lazily, watching the snowflakes drift hastily down from the murky sky to join the towering bank of stark white snow that cut off the valley's only route to the outside world; the landscape was now blending into the mountains that surrounded them due to the copious amounts of snow that had fallen in the last twelve hours. It had been a shock to wake up to this scene, especially since some locals had been visiting to consult with them on the artefacts found and hence were now equally trapped here. 

The weather was fierce enough to prevent communications with those stationed at the village also doing tests, meaning they were completely stranded for the time being, no chance of people, let alone supplies, making it through. He'd overheard part of the morning discussions with Yolle, the Tirtas' leader-to-be/politician-in-training, who despite his inclinations towards sweet talking and manipulation had at least had enough sense to make it clear to those in charge here that attempting to cross either the drifts or the mountain ranges would be suicidal. Besides that fact, it would be a fairly long time before anything like that could be considered necessary, given the adequate shelter and supplies in the valley.

Will was preparing for one more evening in the outpost. _Only_ a week to go before the thaw, apparently. If the weather predictions were right the storm would get worse before easing off and so it seemed the scheduled downtime most of those assigned here had been due would be spent on Tirtas.

Looking out onto the vaguely familiar frozen vista, there was something in him that told him he ought to be shivering, but the outpost's setup was actually quite cosy compared to some he'd been posted at. There'd been a bit of experimentation with Ancient blueprints and a couple of related but ill-understood pieces of Ancient engineering equipment which had resulted in this prototype pre-fab outpost that was remarkably well constructed for something put together over two days. As it was he only felt the barest chill, which he reflected might have had something to do with the local moonshine, though saying that, most of it wasn't actually local in the sense of native, as the label indicated, since it came from the makeshift distillery down the hall; Simpson had definitely spent too much time with Zelenka for her own good.

Of course for the purposes of any official reports, should it matter, it was quite naturally stated as being native alcohol and was pretty useful as a currency to trade with at the markets on the planet, though acquiring the stuff brought to mind his college days. It was easy to foresee that the next week or so would have a possibly unhealthy amount of drinking competitions as there was little to do apart from rewatch the DVD's unloaded by the last supply run. The competitions were bizarrely what decided the allocation of their secret stash of moonshine, drinking as much as possible whilst still standing earnt you an amount equal to what you could withstand and given how good he was at it he could hardly complain about the format, though the reason that the scheme still existed was due to the fact that they didn't have a full time medical doctor positioned here.

He'd given up trying to decide if that situation was fortunate or not and just accepted the way things worked here. After all he wasn't the bureaucratic spoilsport everyone thought he was and he also had to admit it did well to break the tension of the group. Though it made him wonder if Simpson hadn't been spending too much time with Corrigan as well, the man being not just an authority of studying cultures but pretty good at psychology too. Presumably it came with the territory and even if he didn't in general like it being applied to him he couldn't deny how useful the doctor was, handling the visiting group like a class manipulator but being so much more subtle and kinder in his approach than the opposing force which Yolle presented. Half the time Corrigan managed to get around Yolle's closeted policy and draw the answers out of the other Tirtas delegates. The work still went slow enough to infuriate Will and several of the others who lacked the patience Corrigan showed but progress was being made, the function of three out of eighteen items had been ascertained.

Glancing back at the mess hall table he saw Ursula Ronald, one of the linguists, tottering more than a little. She stuttered the start of her sentence before she slurred out a request for one little glass extra.

"I..I..I ca' take it. Trus' me, I can. Not being outdrunk by Bob again! No siree."

It was gonna be one of those nights. The disadvantage of being so good at the competition was how long he survived, by the end he'd be the only one presentable apart from Mayes, who abstained from alcohol most of the time. One of those remaining standing usually took on the responsibility of dragging Simpson back to her quarters lest she decide not to pay up what was owed the next day.

The time spent here may have passed abysmally slowly and been horrendously predictable, as well as often requiring playing nice - or nicer than he was used to back on Atlantis at least – but it was easy to get by on a scientific outpost with minimum fuss and nearly maximum efficiency of work. In fact, he'd found teamwork could go quite well when you didn't have McKay breathing down your neck every day and escalating what would otherwise be minor disagreements. All in all, he thought, as he supported Simpson in the least obvious way - so as to not incur comments about how she could get back to her quarters just fine herself - he was happy here, work was interesting and the people were bearable, if not possibly good company at times. Life was good and he was probably the person who minded least that they were stuck here, denying that niggling feeling that he actually rather liked the prospect because admitting that_ would _be going too far.


	2. Chapter 2

Spoilers: Early S4 somewhere for a brief mention of the potential existence of the setting, but nothing major

* * *

Kavanagh woke up slowly, eyes adjusting to the light as he squinted at the wall clock, noting it was 10am - no wonder he was feeling groggy from too much sleep. Ritually putting on his glasses first, he started getting dressed, however he made no haste in doing so.

Exiting his quarters, he walked down the scarily empty corridor. The one sound he could identify as he made his way to the mess hall was Gregor's muted singing in the shower block. How he was meant to pass the holiday here he didn't know. Drinking was one of the few things they had, but it was little use without the prospect of spending the winnings. Obliviating his brain cells wasn't at the top of his list, which then left only work, even though they weren't obligated to for the next week. Reflecting on what it had been like in the summer, he realised it might have been a different matter had the outpost been even half full.

Designed for a maximum of forty occupants the complex was a modest size spanning several wings over three floors, including the subterranean storage level where the generators were hooked up to a unit that took advantage of the natural source of heat deep below the ground. A few of the less technically minded staff posted here in the summer had joked about living at the steampunk science outpost, completely ignorant of the significance of the feat and how it allowed them to be independent of the ever-rare ZPM's or the still occasionally volatile Naquadah power sources. This place had been designed to last, to be at least partially self-sustainable, and should push come to shove it was an acceptable alternative to the Beta Site for part of Atlantis population.

However, with a mere ten occupants, and a handful of secretive guests, it currently felt...eerie. It was large enough that you could traverse an entire level or a whole wing and possibly not find a sign of anyone, whereas in the summer it had been buzzing with activity. Back then he'd often felt nearly claustrophobic in the crowded kitchen at mealtimes and had simply desired to be left in peace in the lab, rarely finding himself alone anywhere except his own room. Now he felt an irrational pang of guilt for his prior wishes, grudgingly recognising that the quiet he'd wanted wasn't all it was cracked up to be. This was why probably he felt relieved to finally reach the mess hall and hearing the familiar whinings of Ursula.

"Please stop me next time. Just take the bottle away and send me off to bed," said Ursula Ronald as she raised her head, eyes scanning round the table imploringly, "Seriously, I'll pay you half my winnings."

Bob snorted at the plea, spilling precious coffee from the mug he'd held raised at his lips. Bob wiped the liquid up with his sleeve, earning a disapproving look from the other linguist Santini, and next to him Sloane subtly lowered his book, peering over it at poor Ursula. Raising an eyebrow he obviously couldn't resist remarking, in that obscenely dry voice of his, how amusing he found her suggestion.

"You do realise _that_ incentive means we're more likely to leave it as long as possible before helping you. More reward that way."

Bob grinned conspiratorially to Sloane and as Ursula lifted her head up wearily he winked over handedly at her. She groaned and plunged her head back into the comforting zone she found amongst her folded arms that were resting on the table.

Another of the social scientists chose this point to made his late appearance - not that this kind of time was uncharacteristic of him usually. Gregor Valk strolled in casually, smoothly nicking a slice of buttered toast off Ursula's plate as he passed their side of the table.

"What's with the late breakfast this morning?" queried Gregor before taking a large bite out the toast, practically consuming half of it at once, " - is practically brunch."

Following the usual pattern, this was where Kevin Yates deigned to speak the obvious. "My shift alarm didn't go off," Kevin drawled between slurps of his porridge. The man was near incapable of expressing a useful opinion or stating any previously unknown fact. His one redeeming feature was his incredibly meticulous level of work. If you wanted anyone double checking sums, stats or set-ups he was the guy but a great conversationalist he was not; adequate words seemed to escape him leaving only the dreary predictable exclamations. Of course Kevin wasn't the worst there...

"Same here," piped up Yolande, who followed up the agreement with a sickly sweet smile at Kevin. That woman was overbearingly chirpy in the morning, or any time for that matter, being entirely too eager to please anyone it was possible to. He supposed her manner might have helped with the Tirtas on occasion, except that she was clearly no diplomat, she just didn't know when to stop.

There was a final murmured opinion on the topic of "Thank God they didn't, my head is killing me enough as it is" from Ursula, with the rest of the table silent.

As much as he liked this place, nothing was perfect, he mused. The morning conversation wasn't usually thrilling but there was a lot to be said for human contact to keep you sane, regardless of how inane it could get, making it more a case of at least saner than getting none at all.

And just as he thought the subject was closed, Simpson added her two cents."Technically we're on leave you know. Fat lot of good it does us stuck here mind you." She always liked to have the last word, which seemed almost as infuriating as the other quirks of the remaining team members.

"You could work if you want," he challenged, half expecting a snide comment in return about how he was trying to compensate for his lack of other talents, like, _oh_ say, social skills, by going beyond the call of duty.

All he got was a calm response from her, she didn't even glance up from her book. "Actually Johnes and Corrigan are with the Tirtas. Our planetary hosts are playing up again, refusing to cooperate."

This prompted another rare instance of commentary from Sloane, who had never been overly eager to work with the aliens. "I don't know what they expect to happen, it's not like they could leave if they wanted to and there's not much else to do here except for work on their precious artefacts. After all, that's what's the outpost is dedicated to currently since the bulk of the anthropologist buggered off home early. They escaped none too soon, leaving us stuck here pondering their mysteries and playing babysitters for our supposed helpers."

"They don't own the ones we dug up" Will reminded Sloane, irritated by the man's erroneous summary of the situation. The Ancient artefacts found in the ruined temple complex in the mountain were theirs to keep, the territory considered neutral by all the planets clans...it just happened they were stuck on how to use them or what they were for. All they had was the sneaking suspicion they fitted together physically somehow, it was like a puzzle they kept coming back to, hoping for that eureka moment of clarity that had so far eluded everyone involved and the consulting Area 51 scientists who visited from time to time.

Rebecca Santini had been frowning throughout this exchange and was clearly unable to hold back any longer. "No, they don't own them **but** they _do_ control the more well preserved ones, the ones they actually have writings about. I shouldn't need to remind you how valuable that knowledge might be."

Simpson, obviously amused by the linguists' repetition of the far-too-familiar diatribe, unsuccessfully repressed a snicker before deciding to join in briefly to fan the flames. "You _always_ need to remind them."

Replying more in response to Simpson, defiant of her interference, Will couldn't help but spurn the theory Santini so readily defended - he found it hard to believe Simpson felt the situation was of little consequence, hoping to strike some chord that would wake her from her current apathy and find another ally on the subject.

"That's because she always likes to bring up how important it is, ignoring the fact they're just legends. Are we really going to trust stories passed down by oral tradition to have any semblance of the original facts, if they were even privy to any Ancient knowledge?"

Naturally Simpson ignored his impassioned response, it seemed she currently only liked to stir the pot on others' arguments and it was Gregor, yet another person who was sitting on the fence in regard to this importance topic, who cut in and tried his best to conclude the "discussion."

"Sorry guys but we're not having this argument again. Frankly, it is boring and I've heard it one too many times. If you like, Simpson and I could recite it off by heart, condensed to save time, and then maybe we can get onto a more interesting topic."

Kavanagh bristled at Valk's phoney light-hearted manner - they never actually got anywhere on this topic exactly because he or Johnes would step in and smooth it over about as effectively as spreading cold butter on fresh bread.

Santini ignored Valk's request in part as she opened her mouth to speak, with a certain fire remaining in her eyes that indicated she considered this far from over.

"What's more interesting than debating the superiority of ones discipline by disparaging another one? I don't think anything else holds much sway with William since most of anything else doesn't involve inflating his sense of self-importance."

The glare she gave him across the table made him feel uneasy and for a second he worried at what the linguist might be inspired to do, though he wasn't about to show it and he doubted she was one for pranks nor for the more serious and preposterous idea of getting, potentially dangerous, revenge for what amounted to mere slights. Either way, he figured that was about enough interaction for today until he'd be forced to come down for dinner.

"It's a bit too early for breaking out the moonshine but this pleasant morning conversation does tempt, however, I'm going to get back to my other projects. _Not everyone _needs babysitting by aliens to be able to do any work."

* * *

The day passed quietly, silence his only companion in the empty labs. The tests on one of the peripheral objects were easy to set up alone but it was a shame that they'd take twelve hours before he'd have any results to analyze, which had left him the rest of the day, all afternoon, to go over the artefacts, searching for any missed details that might help identify their function. Once more he found himself staring at the dull metallic surface sick of the sight of it and willing himself to pay attention.

"You're not getting far on your own, are you?"

Being more of a statement than truly a question from Simpson, who'd appeared without a word looking over his shoulder, it made him wonder if his earlier efforts to convince her how ill advised and unnecessary the Tirtas advisory group was had been in vain.

"I hate to interrupt," she continued, showing little sign she actually cared as she peered incredulously at his notes, "but it's almost time for dinner. Bob's organised a roast dinner, best we could manage of one. He wanted to point it out to you sooner rather than later. Corrigan thought the meal stood a chance to put the Tirtas at ease and be a show of good faith to share our customs with them."

Swallowing down the urge to refuse to attend, he managed to emit a small noise of acquiescence as he looked down the microscope at a sample. Honestly he couldn't think of anything less appealing than a diplomatic dinner where Corrigan and co. explained the origins of Earth traditions to their likely completely uninterested guests, but not attending would only serve to create friction between him and both sides – he wasn't neutral in this no matter how hard he wished he could be. He sighed, resigning himself to the thought of an abysmal evening in their company; it was never just allowed to be about the science, too much else tended to get in the way of discovery and exploration for his liking.

He'd forgotten Simpson was still in the room, studying his new experiments with a critical eye as she ambled towards the door. Catching his sigh she made one last, unexpected, comment as she hung around near the exit.

"It's not always possible to find the answers on your own, no matter how good you think you are. Pride hurts science but that's not something I'd expect you to understand."

That was possibly the first time for quite a while that she'd directly addressed and criticised him, but he resisted responding in kind to the jab at his ego, not feeling it was wise to escalate such an argument with another member of his department when he needed to stay calm and amass all the patience he could get to survive the evening. Instead he chose to remind her of her debts.

"You owe me five bottles from last week. Leave it any later to pay up and I'll expect interest on that. Don't forget the one from the other night as well."

He got a prickly stare in return but despite her cold tone and thoughtful pause before her reply, she did promise to fetch it right after dinner. Calling back sourly as she headed down the corridor only just audible, she pointed out "It's bad manners to be late and not a good idea to insult the guests."

For once he let her have the last word, not wanting to antagonise her as he had a feeling it'd be immensely useful to have that extra drink this week if the general situation with the Tirtas didn't improve.

* * *

The dinner was a very predictably awkward one, with Corrigan and Johnes trying their best to patch stuff up. Johnes, the default leader of the outpost, had started proceedings off by sharing their sole bottle of wine amiably only to find blank stares from several of their guests, who watched the liquid slosh into their glasses but seemed to deem it in bad taste. Others drank heartily, quickly dispensing with their share and begrudgingly being doled out a second that emptied the remainder. Finding it increasingly hard to ascertain what would please their visitors, Corrigan had focused on teaching them the meaning of Christmas.

"What significance are these Christmas trees?" asked Mikku, one of the more forthcoming Tirtas that Bob liked rather undiplomatically to call Mike.

"Well, that's up for some debate. The holiday has become rather commercialised, that is to say it's more about buying and selling goods, and is often celebrated secularly, with the meaning ignored. The trees are actually a relatively modern addition from a few hundred years ago, quite likely a throwback to pagan traditions and the winter solstice, the time in the year when the day's are shortest."

"Your people ignore the meaning of that which they practice?" said Yolle. He appeared quite disgusted at the thought - _yet probably secretly pleased to find a reason to disparage us_, thought Kavanagh - causing Corrigan to backtrack a little.

"Well, Earth actually has a great number of different customs and winter festivals that various groups observe and there's crossover in customs, which means what holds meaning with one culture can be entirely different for the next."

Yolle gave a strange hmpfh sound and said no more, probably satisfied at getting at least one jab in at Corrigan for the night, as he always tried to do. The leader turned his attention to the meal in front of him, picking at the thinly sliced chicken breast without much interest. Corrigan seemed to give up too and glugged back the rest of his glass of wine, leaving the conversation dead. Finally Santini broke the uncomfortable silence that had befallen them, choosing to talk to the Tirtas opposite her, Rennu, who again had been assigned a nickname by Bob. "Ren" - on whom jokes about Stimpy were obviously completely lost, though that never stopped Bob from being inordinately amused enough for the both of them – was probably the most suitable choice of Tirtas to question, apart from Mikku.

"What about your festivals, Rennu? Do you celebrate during the wintertime?"

Santini's voice was strangely saccharine as she chatted to the middling caste Tirtas, Will wasn't used to hearing her talk without the snippiness she directed at him; they tended not to be in the same room where possible, which was fine since she never stayed long after the first round of drinks. He found it alarming how reassuringly she spoke, all the better to weasel information out of you, making him pleased to be technically on the same side, and personally glad that she became infuriated enough by him that she was more direct – he wasn't one for playing mind games and suddenly he got the distinct impression that she would enjoy them. Rennu, however, seemed oblivious to both her subtle manipulation and the disapproval of one of his own, missing the dark glare that came from Birre, who may or may not have been his superior, further down the table.

"We do indeed mark the shortest day of the year, much as your ancestors once did. Many generations ago the rituals to stave off the dark days used to require a real sacrifice but no longer do we practice that. The rituals still remain, an intricate and dangerous dance between the two who represent the sun and the moon. In fact, we made sure to bring the -"

"Cease"

Rennu hushed abruptly, bowing his head at the single word of Birre.

The rankings of the Tirtas dictated only Johnes and Corrigan could interact with Yolle and Yolle would duly ignore anyone "below" their station, though really he marginally tolerated _their_ presence. The other Tirtas respected the linguists and anthropologists among them, giving Santini a good position from which to work. The scientists weren't so lucky, they were treated with suspicion because they were perceived to be people eager to uncover secrets, regarded duly as spies by a great deal of the Tirtas. The one figure immune from the former assumption was Birre, who barely interacted with Yolle or any of the other Tirtas, let alone talked to any of their people. Nobody had figured out what his purpose was with the delegation. Will was starting to suspect he was their resident Grand Inquisitioner; always watching, listening, studying them as much as they were the artefacts, ready and poised to act, though to do what Will didn't know.

Birre promptly stood up, his forceful stare cast upon his fellows, meeting the gaze of each. With no further words said, every one of the Tirtas followed his example, apart from Mikku, who continued eating heartily as if nothing whatsoever was wrong. The troop exited in a line after Birre, all other eyes watching with a mix of confusion and amazement. Exactly the excuse he required, Will left after they did, glad to be rid of the drama.

When he returned to the mess hall an hour later he found the mood more relaxed, almost cheery, like they were in a state of happy ignorance over their current predicament. It was as if the blanked out window, literally covered up past its height with snow, meant nothing to them – the storm was getting worse and everyone said nothing.

Simpson, the person he was looking for, was standing next to a smaller table with Mikku and a few others. There was a flamboyant swoosh as Mikku uncovered the item they were crowded around, the unveiling bringing about multiple _oohs_ and _aahs_ of appreciation. Curiosity grew as he covered the ground between him and the gathering, ever eager to see what precious Tirtas artefact he was sharing with them, presumably without authorisation. Getting closer he caught a glint reflected at him from between people.

"So you say you need another person for the ritual? I'm sure Kavanagh could assist, he did fencing at college, isn't the right Will?" teased Simpson, saying his name in a mock-buddy way that grated. He would have counted to ten as he walked over but closing in, the crowd parted slightly, providing room for him to join them and revealing what would have caused him to choke on the drink he'd picked up upon entering, had he taken a sip the moment before as he'd intended to.

Simpson grinned, beginning to laugh at his speechlessness. Mikku simply looked at him, apparently expectant of an answer. Will, however, was transfixed on the exquisite triple bladed sword, polished to perfection, gleaming in the light. It was the weirdest sword he'd ever seen, wonderful carvings scrolled the length of the blades, tendrils with leaves trailing devolving into branches curling back down to the bizarrely shaped mount, that he realised were actually three slotted into one another.

Without thinking his hands traced the hilt, surprised to see the two outer swords grips curved back round to meet the straight middle grip, with each punctuated by a distinct diagonal hole and his fingers found equally oddly the end of the middle hilt itself was hollow. This sword wasn't designed for battle, in fact he was sure it would be quite tricky to hold any of them but the middle one. Incredible as the sword was, he wasn't going to show Simpson, or anyone else, his admiration.

"Interesting. Simpson – moonshine, _remember_? I'd like it before you get too distracted."

She thinned her lips, unhappy with his timing, but a nod accompanied her cold glare. Whispering her thanks to Mikku, she then stalked off towards the lab, not waiting for Will to catch up. Halfway there and he'd just about got on par with her power walking when her hand shot out from besides him, halting his progress as she slowed herself, edging towards the corner intersection with care. Straining he made out two less familiar voices, Rennu perhaps and some other Tirtas, though it was soon much easier to hear what was becoming a heated argument.

"...we have to rectify our mistakes."

"At what cost, Tarru? We don't do that any more, the old ways are abandoned and for good reason!"

"But you heard what Minster Birre said – an eternal winter is coming! The storm is proof of it, the worst we have ever seen. Hunting is harder each year and the weather spurns us. This is the last step, we have angered the very stars."

"You can't be serious, "angered the stars"? That is nonsense. The sun will always rise, it has never stopped even without the old ways. We do not control it and I am sure it doesn't care of our movements."

"Do as you wish then, and we will do as we are compelled to. You _were_ warned."

Heavy footsteps indicated one of the two leaving but they stood motionless for another minute, waiting until they they heard the other running off. Continuing on with caution, Simpson was quiet, leaving him to speak first.

"What was that about? Old ways, angering the stars. They're more backwards than I thought."

She left his comment alone, pondering out loud, sounding uncertain. "Maybe we should have interrupted that. Then at least they'd know we know they're up to something."

He laughed. "No way. I'm glad we heard it all, there was little enough to go on as it was. Whatever we know is weak but at least we can be sure they mean business. Bet Corrigan will be in for a fun day tomorrow."

Simpson said nothing, still mulling over the event as they approached the makeshift distillery. She'd been fumbling with her keyring for the correct storage locker key when the static came in over the radio. There was a second of it, no one saying anything, then the connection dropped. Simpson had stopped searching for the right key so he can't have been the only one to experience it.

"Open frequency? Did you hear tha-"

A brittle scream emanated from below. They stood stock still, shocked. When the radio clicked on and off again they shared a look, Simpson signalling they should go back the way they'd come. Jogging the same route in reverse they tried to be as stealthy as possible – an effort that was made useless as Santini came across comms, her intense pleadings deafening at first.

A deep chill settled on him as he ran towards the mess hall listening to her desperate voice, growing ever weaker, so full of fear that he could feel it too. He couldn't make out the words, she'd been reduced to babbling in her native tongue and the few he half recognised sounded disturbingly like part of prayers, repeated over and over.


	3. Chapter 3

Spoilers: Early S4 somewhere for a brief mention of the potential existence of the setting, but nothing major

Author's Note: Betaread by fififolle and rodlox.

* * *

Following the grim trail of blood that led into the mess hall, they were met by a scene of chaos.

"What the fuck!?" Simpson declared, stealing the words out of his mouth; both of them were drop-jawed by what they faced.

Furniture was strewn across the room, large sets of triple scores through much of it, made by the now ominously absent sword. The already inadequate Christmas decorations were shredded to bits, with what was left of them hanging haphazardly on one side. Those remaining paper chains ran down the walls, next to the rivulets of blood. There was no sign of any life and fortunately no bodies either. Santini's terrified babbling had died away as they'd reached the area and she wasn't any where to be seen, leaving them no clue whose blood had been spilt.

"Where did they go? Where would you go – if you were Santini?" Simpson whispered.

"I don't know." He let out a short nervous laugh, his mind busily raking over the facts, desperately trying to formulate a theory from it all, "I don't exactly have a wish to get inside her mind. Besides, she was babbling like a fool on the radio. Do you really think we're going to any sense out of her?" he said, striding over to Simpson's position, ignoring the motivation. In the back of his mind he was thinking _safety in numbers_ , comforted slightly that there were ten of them versus seven Tirtas.

"Worth a try. Whatever happened she saw it."

He snorted, close to letting out another almost hysterical laugh. Out of all the Atlantis disasters, he'd never seen this much blood and being confronted with it was starting to get to him. "Yeah, saw it and flipped out. _Real helpful_."

His reaction seemed to be testing Simpson's patience. "Reckon you could have done better?" she said daringly, moving closer, facing him off. He didn't move away but mentally he stumbled for a response, recognising that something horrible had happened here and he was barely keeping it together in the aftermath, which made it hypocritical to question the others' behaviour. The nonoccurence of a reply didn't deter her from throwing down the gauntlet though.

"Get over yourself, Kavanagh. Santini is out there crying to herself, people are injured, someone is possibly dead, judging by how much blood's been lost. I don't want to hear a single word bitching about bad management of the situation – we're in a state of emergency. Start thinking on your feet or you'll be next!"

He let her finish uninterrupted, unnecessary as her monologue was, knowing she was venting her own stress. The natural reaction seemed to be laugh, cry or fight - his was to laugh in the face of danger so far, which was about as useful as Santini's. Not wanting to end up hysterical, he tried to push the nervousness back and focus on the reality. _Have to find people. Figure out what happened. Fight back._

Having finished her fuming Simpson picked up a metal chair leg, wrenching it out of the broken plastic base, and went to check out the corridor outside.

"Wait, there's a tapping." he said, tipping his head, "Coming from the kitchen."

Simpson stayed put, watching him as he made his way across and prodded the door open. He'd only put one foot inside when he saw a glint in the light and was jerked to the floor. In a flash he was dragged inside and the darkness became complete, with the one sensation he was aware of being the knife at his throat.

"Chi è?"

The question from Santini was short and sweet, some Italian unintelligible to him, but emphasised as a query by the tip of the knife digging in a tad more to prompt a response. Afraid of the blade he gruffly responded "Kavanagh" with minimum movement, hoping she was sane enough to recognise he was a friend, their disputes notwithstanding. After a second the pressure was released and he instinctively moved a hand to protect his neck, smoothing over the skin to double check there was no serious damage.

Reaching into his combats for a torch, he heard scuttling sounds and hurried to click it on. Illuminated by the beam, Santini was huddled in the corner, covered in blood. In her left hand was a carving knife, positioned upright, wavering alarmingly as she rocked on her heels. For a second he thought her responsible until his mind took in the details. Blood was all over her but there was none on the knife.

"Santini?"

Keeping at a distance, he tried to engage her in conversation.

"What happened? Whose blood is it?"

Blood was the key word, eliciting her to glance at him and emit a mumbled reply.

"Blood. Everywhere. They came and it was everywhere."

As she began to sob, he felt despicable to be pushing for more answers but it had to be done.

"Whose blood is it? Are all of us okay?"

No reply.

"Is the team alright, Rebecca?"

The tears were coming freely but he didn't feel that moving closer to comfort her was wise – he was still wary of the knife held steadfast.

"Santini! What fucking happened?"

The crying stopped and she looked up. Probably wasn't the brightest idea to try to provoke a person with a weapon but it had got her attention. He didn't detect that usual fire in her eyes, there was no rage directed at him. She stared blankly through him yet she spoke clearly, detached this time.

"Birre came and Yolle came, with the others. They were armed and they argued with Mikku. Tried to force him to go with them. There was fighting, Mikku's sword got used. He was good with it but there were more of them, even when Rennu turned on the rest. I didn't know what to do. So many cuts, so much blood. I hid, and after, Rennu found me...his blood. Everyone else was gone."

The last sentiment sank in and her tears returned with a vengeance. He considered taking her with him, to wherever he would end up, but didn't deem it prudent given her fluctuating condition. At least she had no problem defending herself, she was currently better armed than him. However, she was definitely in shock and from the brief training he'd had there came the idea he should do something about it - surely she'd stand a better chance if she was more coherent? How long the coherency would stay he couldn't tell, if she reacted the same again, but it was worth doing anyway.

The recommendation he could recall was for tea or coffee with lots of sugar, neither of which he was keen to take the time out to make, so he fumbled in his pockets for a powerbar. Sliding it across the floor it came to rest a foot away from her position. Her eyes darted to it for a second but she didn't take the bait. Groaning at the predictability of the situation, he reluctantly withdrew the other option and slid that across as well. This time the gift was snatched up immediately, stowed away who knew where because as he made his way to the door he couldn't hear her eating it. He hoped he hadn't just wasted his last candy bar on a soon to be dead woman.

The bright light stung in his eyes as he exited the kitchen. "Simpson," he called out, wondering which direction would be best for a trip to the armoury. While his sight adjusted to the ambience, he couldn't see her about, and squinting less and less he realised he'd lost her. There'd been no noises whilst he'd been "chatting" to Santini and there was no sign of a struggle in the corridor but the possibility was there that Simpson had fallen foul of the renegade Tirtas group. Suddenly he felt empty, alone, the fear spilling in. He was in the middle of a wrecked corridor, exposed...but maybe she'd left him, fled like a coward at the first sign of trouble. He latched onto the anger, ignoring the point that it would be uncharacteristic for her, and marched defiantly towards the armoury, holding his only weapon – the small maglite – raised, ready to strike.

Heading for the ground floor "armoury" – the largest of the weapons lockers in the facility - it wasn't long before he came across another gruesome stream of blood that backed into a tiny easy-to-miss storage closet.

This time he pushed down the handle and opened it just a crack first – he didn't want to risk a potentially lethal repeat of the Santini event. Moving away to kick it open from the hinged side, he quickly swung the torch upwards, scanning the closet. The beam shone across a body and he angled it down to where he estimated the face should be, into the eyes of...Rennu. He was slumped against the side wall, eyes watery and skin pale.

"Couldn't stop them," the Tirtas spluttered weakly, a hint of unnatural red staining his lips.

The crazed, delirious portion of his mind pondered the likelihood the guy had found the time to experiment with one of Yolande's lipsticks, ready to twist reality into a joke that seemed more acceptable, less panic-inspiring. The rest of him bit down on the maddened idea; he knew exactly what it was.

A glance further down highlighted torn white fabric wrapped around his torso, soaked through with blood. Glistening drops were forming at the bottom of the makeshift dressing, indicating the bleeding was nowhere near stopping.

"It's...appreciated," he replied. The response didn't seem adequate to him somehow. Creeping closer, he took another sheet from a nearby shelf and crouching down, tried to work out the best way to apply it.

"Take the sword," Rennu said, indicating with a feeble roll of his head to the left.

A few inches from his limp arm was a sword, one of the outer sections of the ceremonial triple blade. Of course, that'd make sense, there was little else to cut with around here and the strips already tied loosely were, upon examination, less roughly made than he'd have expected. Reaching across he pulled the sword to his side and set about making more, hoping he could better wrap them to slow the bleeding than Rennu had managed on his own.

Handling the sword was much different from any weapon he was used to, not that he'd fenced in years. Generally he avoided weapons training like the plague, wanting to keep his contact with the military to the minimum. Basic pistol and survival training should have sufficed for the type of missions he preferred and he certainly didn't want to give them any excuses to send him on extra dangerous missions, but right now he could've done with that course on impromptu melee fighting he'd opted out of last month. It'd been so easy to turn down with him being on leave at the time...

"Take the sword." Rennu repeated, to his confusion – he might be fumbling it but he had the sword no mistake. Maybe the guy was already too far gone.

"I've already got the sword," he replied, stripping the sentence of the impatience threatening to spill through.

"Take it _and_ **_go_** . Birre has Mikku...looking for another, one of yours..." Rennu closed his eyes and grunted in pain as Kavanagh shifted his body forward, looping the makeshift bandage around his back. "He will kill you in pairs."

"Feel like sharing the why?" he asked tetchily, pulling the wrap a bit too tight for Rennu's liking judging by his grimace. Guilt rose but Will reminded himself it was for his own good, Rennu stood no chance without decent dressings.

"A war with your people would be convenient, uniting the tribes and clans of our world, and," Rennu laughed bitterly, eyes drifting to the floor as he elaborated the thoughts that must have been running through his head the past few hours, "it could justify the old ways. Birre would have his precious power returned, for as long as they deem him to be successful."

Returning his gaze to Will, it became focused, piercing and almost demanding of him as he explained the bleak situation further.

"But it won't work. There's been a curse – a disease," Rennu corrected his language, either avoiding ties to the superstitious old way or perhaps to appeal to the scientist, "on the lands for centuries. It grows colder, food sparser for it and half of us are reduced to desperate fools, willing to follow anyone proclaiming an answer."

Will didn't know what to say to that. None of it helped him out of this predicament.

"I've done my best with your wounds. I'm no medic."

"Many thanks for your efforts Dr Kavanagh," Rennu said. His voice dropped to a low, sounding incredibly exhausted after his passionate confession.

"You're welcome," he said, his voice wavering as he noted the speedily spreading patch on the new bandages, "I've got to go now."

Closing the door quietly, he scouted the surrounding corridor. When he felt satisfied it was safe, he traipsed in the direction of the west wing, treading as lightly as possible. Creeping around the scattered pieces of broken glass fallen from a light above, he opened the creaky door to the stairwell with a wince at the noise.

Peering upwards the coast looked clear for a trip to his lab, where he knew there had to be plenty of hazardous chemicals he could use against the less friendly Tirtas. Starting a war wasn't going to look good on his record – and it _always_ went down as the Atlanteans fault, which until now he could've believed, given Sheppard and co's casual attitude to mission planning and diplomacy - but damned if he was going to wait around to be a sacrificial lamb for some greedy power hungry priest.

With dread he stepped into the stairwell and began the climb to the top floor, ignoring the nagging thought that told him he was leaving the man to die in a dark tiny alien closet, and that he was chasing after an optimistic notion he'd fare any better off by resisting directly. The clank from the metallic step echoed and he held back on the following movement, wondering if this was such a good plan as it had seemed a minute ago. Going up there he could be walking right into Birre's arms or a trap set for him - they knew where he worked after all.

Backing off, he moved his foot down from the step, only to be surprised by a screech. He'd been hefting along the single blade from the tri-sword and glancing down he saw it had caught the concrete when he'd dropped his guard in defeat. Bloodstains marred the weapon, which he noticed in the well lit area was duller than when shown off by Mikku. This one looked older, antiqued and plainer too, the carvings simpler – in the pattern of the foliage scrolling out they were each time split into three branches. The significance was lost on him but he held it up higher, feeling it would be disrespectful to disregard the gift from Rennu, and with the effort came a rush of adrenaline.

Would Simpson stop here? Would she back down from a necessary fight? No. And neither would Corrigan or Valk; they'd talk, they'd aim for a peaceful end but they'd also strike back when that failed. Everyone else would fight. Even the gibbering mess that was Santini would fight tooth and claw against anyone threatening them. Everyone else would fight and fail, leaving only him. If he hid there'd be one insult on Atlantis he'd actually deserve, a slur against his character he'd not be able to defend. If he didn't fight, he'd be a sole survivor... _and_ a despicable coward.

The determination not to prove them right replaced fear and he raised the sword higher still, muscles protesting, and ran forwards in a dash to his lab. He didn't make it to floor 2 without a rest – sprinting with a sword wasn't a bright idea – yet slowing to an average pace did not cause his courageousness to dissipate. He gripped the sword firmly and made his way, counting down the steps to the top, every step creating a shrill beat in his call to war.


End file.
